


Every day at 7 pm

by eucleia



Series: Newtina drabbles [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28356354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eucleia/pseuds/eucleia
Summary: This is Tina's routine:Every evening, she sits by the fire in her living room, a fresh cup of coffee in her hands. She tries not to tense, and she likes to pretend she's busy, but it's never with anything that would take longer than a moment to put down. Tina knows Queenie would laugh at her if she were here, but her sister is happily married and settled in the cozy flat above Jacob's bakery. It's just Tina and her impeccable routine at the brownstone, and an almost embarrassed indulgence in missing the man she said goodbye to nearly a year back.
Relationships: Tina Goldstein/Newt Scamander
Series: Newtina drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076660
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Every day at 7 pm

**Author's Note:**

> I found this lying about in my archives and oh my, it gave me the newtina feels. So here you go! Re-posted from my tumblr. PS. Can you tell I love Ella Enchanted? That letter will always hold a piece of real-estate in my language brain, it seems.

He writes her a letter every day. Rain or shine, there is a sharp tap at her window every evening at 7, and there it is, every day the same owl with a letter tied to its leg. She doesn't think of the hands tying it on, because she knows that the letters are sorted before being transferred across the oceans, and that the hands that tie them to the owls are not the ones she misses. No, Tina focuses on the letter, the messy scrawl at the front scribbling out her name in green ink. _Miss Tina Goldstein,_ followed by some nearly illegible lines that she knows are her address.

This is Tina's routine:

Every evening, she sits by the fire in her living room, a fresh cup of coffee in her hands. She tries not to tense, and she likes to pretend she's busy, but it's never with anything that would take longer than a moment to put down. Tina knows Queenie would laugh at her if she were here, but her sister is happily married and settled in the cozy flat above Jacob's bakery. It's just Tina and her impeccable routine at the brownstone, and an almost embarrassed indulgence in missing the man she said goodbye to nearly a year back.

When she unties the letter from the owl, she slips a knut into the pouch that's tied to its other leg as a tip. And then, because it's been almost a year of letters and she has become very well acquainted with the owl (Tina doesn't know his name, but she calls him Ernie), she feeds him a little treat that she's bought especially for him as he waits to take back her reply. Queenie would laugh at that as well, Tina knows. Tina misses that laughter, though she consoles herself with the fact that Queenie's only a few blocks away. It doesn't quite make the hollow feeling in her chest go away when she has to come home everyday to rooms bathed in shadow and darkness. Sometimes, Tina can only pretend that the letter she's looking forward to from Newt is actually him, waiting to welcome her home so he can tell her all about his day and wait to hear about hers.

Other times, like today, the loneliness is too aching and sharp for any pretense.

Usually, once the window is shut and Ernie is content in a corner with his treat, Tina sits down on her armchair. She takes a careful sip of her cooling coffee. Then she takes a moment to look at the back of the envelope that holds her name and address. _It's the distance that makes it harder_ , Tina thinks today, a finger absent-mindedly trailing over her own name at the back of the latest letter. Her thoughts turn to Newt, like they must. There is a smudge of dirt on the corner of this envelope, and she wonders if he wrote this in the forest again, between feeding the bowtruckles and watching Susan fly.

Every day, she tries to make the letter last longer.

Once she has taken in all she can from the outside, she turns the letter over. She imagines Newt dripping wax on to it, sealing it, and she runs her hand on the half-seal, smiling at the messy impatience. She breaks the seal open gently, making sure it remains whole. She unfolds the letter.

Tina isn't sure if she imagines it, but there's always a whiff of something that is so incredibly _Newt_ about every letter, a faint smell of pine and soil _._ It's stronger today, and she feels how much she misses him like a punch to the gut. It's been nearly a whole year since she's seen him, and yes, she admits against her better judgement, she has become used to the letters. But still, she would burn them all in a heartbeat if she could have him back.

They're not engaged. The thought stings, but Tina pushes it away like she has the other three-hundred-and-fifty times before. They're not engaged, but they're something to each other, and something _important_ , or Newt wouldn't say he would write her every day and keep to his words faithfully.

They're something to each other, or Tina wouldn't sit here like this, alone, his letter clutched to her chest like a promise. 

_Dearest Tina_ , this one starts. (He didn't use to address the letters to her like that, not at first, even though he had spoken the words when they'd said goodbye. <I'll be back> he had told her, when she had seen him to the boat that last time, both his hands holding hers tightly between them. <Dearest Tina. I'll be back. It'll be some time before I can but I'll write to you, every day. There won't be a book next time, I'm afraid. Just me. But I'll be back.>)

_I hope the weather is better today. I just got your letter dated the 6 th this morning – the Americans seem to be catching up, although two weeks' of missing letters could hardly be called that. But I will be fair; after all, you are the one who does not get the luxury of a reprieve from my communications._

_Today's might be a little shorter than usual, and perhaps a little different. I do not make it a habit to keep count, Tina, but this is letter number three-hundred-and-fifty-one from me to you, which makes it just about a year since I have last seen you (and, in honour of your letter of the 6th, three years since we met). In your last, you ask how Pickett is (fine), and whether Marty the marmite has grown any more independent (unfortunately not). You do not, however, ask when I might be back._

_We have been busy, you and I, I realise that. As you well know, I was tasked with travelling the southern coast of Africa to supplement the next edition of_ Fantastic Beasts. _And you...I burn with pride whenever the Daily Prophet writes about MACUSA's Porpentina Goldstein, celebrated Auror, and her achievements. It's not very often, I grant you, but they printed a picture in the last issue which placated me some. I fear I must also confess that I keep it with me; it is better than missing paper-and-ink. I had hoped to see you smile, however on that front, the Daily Prophet continues to disappoint. But I digress;_

_With every letter I get from you, I fear a reprimand at my silence, yet none arrives. You have written me back faithfully, and I was content, but now I grow fearful that you write out of duty rather than gratification. I said I would be back, and I fully intend to fulfil my promise. I would not, however, wish to intrude into desires that are no longer there. I respect you too much to suspect that you have promised yourself elsewhere and neglected to tell me. However, Tina, I must know and so I must ask;_

_I did not propose to you last year because it did not feel right to ask you to commit to an absent man. I did, however, leave with a heart that was fully your own, whether you realised it or not. It still is._

_May I see you soon, Tina?_

_Yours, as ever,_

_Newt_

This is where Tina breaks routine, because her hands are trembling. She stands up slowly and goes to her desk. Usually, she would bring her coffee with her. Usually, she would sit down. She would smooth out his letter, re-read it, and then answer it, even though she knows that he doesn't get her letters with the same clockwork regularity that she gets his.

Today, she stays standing. She pulls a piece of paper towards her and scribbles just two words on it. She folds it once, twice, seals it with wax, and then ties it to Ernie's leg. She opens the window and sends him out into the night sky and prays, prays, prays.

The next day, there is no letter from Newt.

Tina spends the better part of the hour after the clock strikes seven with the window open. She tries to pretend that she isn't looking out at the sky, waiting for an owl-shaped shadow to bring her Newt's words, but she fails. By eight, she paces the room. At one point, she tries to finish her coffee, but it is cold and tastes empty in her mouth, so Tina gives up and pours it down the drain. She does the dishes. She reaches for a shawl, because the fire is burning but the window is open and she feels it. She paces some more. She sits down on her armchair, and then springs back up to go to her desk. The copy of _Fantastic Beasts_ Newt gave her last year sits there in the corner, removed so many times from her bookshelf that Tina had given up on replacing it. Usually, the sight of his name and the reminder that he wrote each word in the book is calming. Tonight, the words blur together. Tina puts the book back and goes back to the window.

There is no owl, but at nine, there is a knock on her front door. Tina answers it, and then stares, and stares, and stares.

"I'm sorry I didn't write you today," Newt says. He's dressed in a long, green coat, and her eyes drink in the changes since she last saw him: his hair is shorter, but only just, and still hangs over his face in a mass of dishevelled curls; his eyes, as blue as ever, shine with the same light, though his face seems thinner than she remembers; freckles dust his face, sharper than before and ever more numerous, and Tina finds herself tracing his journeys in them.

He carries a bag in his hand, but it is battered and old and crooked; it is not his suitcase. She looks back at his face, a question in her eyes, and sees that he has been examining her the same way that she has him. When their eyes meet, Newt's crinkle, and he finishes speaking. "I left the moment I got your letter to make arrangements for the beasts, and to catch the next portkey to New York. I couldn't get it in before the usual deadline. I do have it with me, though. Letter three-hundred-and-fifty-two." He smiles, tilting his head a little, and puts down his bag before fishing inside his coat and holding out the square of parchment to her.

Tina can see the bright green ink spelling out her name, and she realises she still hasn't spoken a word. She isn't sure if she can, so she blinks, and swallows, and then gives up. She moves aside, abrupt, and gestures him to step inside. She closes the door as he brushes past her, and locks it, and realises that she has used up all her self-restraint in those actions. When she looks at Newt again, her body moves on its own. She takes one step, two, and then crashes into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, heedless of the letter crumpling between them.

He feels cold, but solid, and Tina buries her face in his neck and can't stop the hiccuping breath that breaks out of her. Newt's arms wrap around her immediately, one hand still fisted around the letter, and Tina tightens her own hold on him. She can't speak, but she tells him how much she missed him through the curl of her fingers and the dampness of her tears on his collar.

It's a long while, but she finally pulls back from him just far enough away so that she can see his face. It strikes her anew how long ago it was that she was this close to him, and she bites her lip and brings a hand up to touch his face. She traces his new freckles and old lines, and reacquaints herself to his faint stubble and faded scars; she recognises the soft gaze he levels at her and finally, finally, finds the words.

"Welcome back."

Newt smiles, and smoothes the tears away from her cheek.

"I'm back," he says quietly, and then swallows and holds out his letter to her again. "I'm not leaving again. Not without you."

"Is that what this says?" Tina asks, finally taking the letter from him. She doesn't glance at the front; she turns the crumpled letter over and tears it open, barely noticing the wax that falls to the floor in three pieces. There are no words inside the letter, only a single, round object in the middle of it.

"Yes," Newt says, in reply to her question, and Tina meets his eyes, a sure fire burning in them. There is no doubt when she picks up the item and holds it out to him. Tacit agreement shines between them; Tina feels it to the tip of her fingers, and sees it reflected in the blue of Newt's eyes as he watches her. There's a smile lingering about his lips, and Tina feels a strong rush of emotion build in her chest at the sight, something that feels a lot like the need to spend the rest of her life with the figure that stands before her, watching her with soft, careful eyes.

"Yes," she repeats, and when Newt slips the ring onto her finger, she smiles so brightly that Newt forgets himself and stares, unblinking and unmoving, until she laughs and he's startled into a sheepish smile.

"I love you," Newt says. The words burst forth from him, like he's been waiting to say them, like they've been on the tip of his tongue since she opened the door, or for a year. He reaches a hand out to her, resting it against her shoulder and brushes his thumb and forefinger against her cheek. He touches her carefully, reverently; his smile dulls, but his eyes shine brighter with intensity.

"I love _you_ ," Tina says, and she knows she's been waiting to say the words the whole year that they've been apart. "Did you really think I would write to you out of duty?"

"You never asked when I would be back," Newt says. His other hand comes to rest at her waist, and his fingers tighten just the little bit against her, but Tina smiles. She steps into his arms and rests her head against his chest. He is warm now, and so achingly real. Tina closes her eyes and breathes deeply, a sigh of relief. Her hands go around his waist, holding tight, before she replies.

"I didn't need to ask when." He smells of pine, and fresh soil, and lemon. He smells like home. "I knew you would."

For the first time in months, her heart feels full. She doesn't need to look around her to know that in one moment, her apartment has become warmer, and welcoming, and complete. Today, Newt is next to her, waiting to hear about her day and tell her about his.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, they will do it all over again, and the day after that, and the day after that. Because Tina would be damned if she let Newt leave her side again.


End file.
